[Rynthall Estate—Morning After the Great Reconciliation]
The sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows of the Rynthall dining hall like an overly eager blessing. The long mahogany table—polished to a royal shine—was covered in what could only be described as a culinary battlefield of abundance.
Piles of golden croissants, neatly stacked pancakes dripping with syrup, buttery eggs, seven different kinds of cheeses, freshly baked bread towers, assorted tropical fruits carved into suspiciously romantic shapes, and—because the chef had no chill—an entire roasted duck.
Lucien stared.
No.
Gawked.
"...Wow."
Silas, ever the doting husband, gently helped him ease into the velvet-lined chair like he was made of spun sugar and heartbreak poetry. "There, there... take a seat carefully, my love," he whispered, voice dipped in syrup.
But Lucien wasn't listening.
His eyes were locked on the breakfast table like a war general surveying a battlefield he fully intended to conquer.
